


on your a.m. radio

by starkhasheart



Series: touch-tone telephone [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Voice Kink, apologies to neil cicierega
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22221184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkhasheart/pseuds/starkhasheart
Summary: Aziraphale’s mobile, so lovingly gifted to him by a certain demon, is resting beside him on the bed. The screen lights up, “Calling Crowley…” scrolling across the display. However, Aziraphale is too preoccupied at the moment to notice, one hand moving with fervor over his cock while the other maps out the expanse of his chest, wishing it was the hands of said demon that just so happens to pick up.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: touch-tone telephone [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599538
Comments: 15
Kudos: 307
Collections: Top Crowley Library





	on your a.m. radio

**Author's Note:**

> hey what's up  
> this is a sequel to my other phone sex fic but aziraphale accidentally calls crowley this time and it's over the bentley's speakers :o)  
> once again title is from touch-tone telephone by lemon demon

Aziraphale’s not that good concerning technology.

Of course, he has made attempts at figuring out the blessed contraptions that humans come up with; mainly the phones they think they must reproduce every year with some newfangled add-ons that hike the price up exponentially. He does admit that they come in handy when one needs to contact someone instantly or in a case of emergency, and that’s mainly why he accepts one as a gift from Crowley.

He’s well aware that Crowley has been a tad on the clingy side since the world kept turning and the bookshop was willed from the ashes by the eleven-year-old Antichrist. At first, Aziraphale couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but it hit him one night when they were lounging in the backroom one evening, Crowley sprawled on the settee, one arm raised with a glass of wine in his hand, gesticulating wildly while telling a story. His glasses were on and yet Aziraphale could feel the demon’s golden gaze on him, locked on, as if he never wanted to let Aziraphale out of his sight.

Crowley was afraid of losing him again.

It caused Aziraphale’s heart to pang. That moment in the bar flashed in his mind—Crowley’s face twisted in agony, brows to his hairline at the sight of Aziraphale’s discorporated form, and that phrase, that one phrase that repeats in Aziraphale’s head like a mantra:

_I lost my best friend_.

So that’s why he accepts Crowley’s gift graciously, smiling when the demon plops the box into his hands.

“Already set it up and everything,” Crowley explains. “My number’s in there already. Passcode’s 4-0-0-4. Fingerprint ID isn’t set up but I’m not sure we have fingerprints. Do we?” He lifts his hand to his face to scrutinize his thumb, and Aziraphale can see his crow’s feet from behind his glasses. He thinks they’re endearing.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale says wryly, fiddling with the box before setting it off to the side on his desk. He gives Crowley a once-over, takes in his copper hair, long enough that it’s curling in tendrils at his chin, and his hands, one shoved into the pockets of his too-tight jeans and one clenching and unclenching at his side. “I do find myself wondering what the occasion is for it, is all.”

“I. Er. There’s going to be this gardening expo in Thatcham this weekend. It’s not that far from London but I’m gonna stay at a hostel for it so I don’t have to drive back and forth.” Crowley worries his bottom lip with his teeth. Aziraphale wishes he could see the demon’s eyes. “I don’t think anything’ll happen but it’s just…insurance, you know.”

Aziraphale’s expression softens considerably as he gazes at the demon, and he can’t help but smile. “Of course, Crowley. I’ll always keep it on my person. Thank you for your concern.”

Crowley appears flustered, scratching the back of his neck as a flush creeps up his slender throat. “’S nothing.”

Aziraphale sees Crowley off the next evening with a smile and a wave, watching the demon duck into the Bentley and peel away from the curb before barreling off into Soho traffic at his usual speeds. Rolling his eyes in exasperation, the angel turns and ducks back into the bookshop, locking the door tightly behind him. With a downward flick of his wrist the blinds cover the windows, blocking any curious glances inside the shop, and the lights dim slightly, enough to give a calming ambiance and to see. Humming a jaunty tune, Aziraphale pours a glass of scotch before returning to his desk, putting his attention back to the tattered tome begging for his attention and repair.

He’s about to throw himself into his restorative work when his eyes catch the phone’s box resting on the edge of his desk. Pursing his lips, he takes a sip of scotch before grabbing the box and sliding the lid off, the contents inside greeting him. The phone is black, sleek, something so Crowley-esque that Aziraphale can’t help but smile. It’s also intimidating, glass-like and thin enough he could snap it in half with his fingers if he chose to, but of course he wouldn’t. He picks it up, cold metal nearly burning his skin, and twists it around in his hands before he’s faced with the screen. When his eyes fall on the glass, the screen comes to life.

Aziraphale squeaks and nearly drops the device, and he performs a very intricate juggling act until he can get a proper grip on it again. It’s still awake, the brightness of the screen nearly blinding, so the angel fiddles with it until he figures out how to lower the brightness.

“If Crowley can adjust to things easily, perhaps I could give it the old college try as well,” Aziraphale muses, gently pressing the home button and tapping in the passcode. This brings him to the home screen, and it’s bare besides the apps that come already installed on the phone, and the wallpaper is default as well.

He fiddles with it a bit, finding his contact list and seeing, in fact, that Crowley is his only contact. He can’t help but smile at the phone’s screen. Setting the phone down gingerly on the desk, he takes another drink of scotch before he gets to work.

Aziraphale was not aware of how much time he spent with Crowley until Crowley was gone.

It was only for two days. Yet, it felt like two centuries. Aziraphale even kept the shop open normal hours just so he could ignore the fact that he deeply _missed_ Crowley. It’s shocking to him, considering that they’ve spent centuries apart before, but after the world kept turning, they’re pretty much in each other’s company every day. Maybe not every hour, but every day. It’s making Aziraphale feel unsettled and restless, and when he manages to shoo out the remaining customers for the day and lock up he finds himself pacing about the stacks of books in the shop, teeth worrying his bottom lip.

Crowley should be on his way back to London tonight. It’s Sunday, and he said he’d be back in the evening, but Aziraphale is finding that the hours are dragging on at a glacial pace. He’s grown tired of binding books, he’s not in the mood to settle back with a drink—no matter what he tries to distract himself with, his mind always falls back to Crowley, and certain thoughts about Crowley that have always rested at the back of his mind that he tries not to entertain.

Well, that’s not entirely correct. Of course, in the past he forced himself to shove said thoughts to the side, seeing as they were unbecoming of an angel (they still technically are, but Aziraphale isn’t really a model angel, is he?) but now that he’s free of the chains that bound him, he could allow himself to…delve into the thoughts he kept under a lid for millennia.

“Not here,” Aziraphale mutters to himself. He wills the blinds down and dims the lights before he heads up to the poky little flat perched above the bookshop. He halts at the staircase, realizing he’s forgetting something.

He bustles back to his desk to snatch up the phone Crowley so lovingly gave him before walking up the stairs to do the one thing that would ruin their precious friendship if said demon ever found out.

Aziraphale is familiar with acts of self-pleasure. Contrary to what one might think, he has partaken in it several times before—not during his stint in the gentlemen’s club, which is what one might think—but starting right after the Blitz, when Crowley handed him that blessed bag of books covered in a thin sheen of dust, and he suddenly found his libido coming to life and kicking into high gear.

It was also when he suddenly found that he might like Crowley much, _much_ more than an angel should.

Of course, angels are beings of love, and Aziraphale is no different. At first, he chalked it all up as being that general love he has for all the Almighty’s creations, but as he would think about it, even that didn’t make sense. Crowley is a demon, and he is an angel, and they’re _supposed_ to be hereditary enemies and yet—and _yet_. 

Aziraphale sighs as he situates himself in his flat, miracling away layers of dust with a flick of his hand, displacing the stacks of books covering the bed safely into pillars on the floor. The angel huffs at the state of the space and makes a resolve to spruce things up eventually.

He gingerly sits the phone on the bed and flicks on the vintage Tiffany lamp resting on the nightstand, and sets to work disrobing, already feeling the telltale throbbing of his cock stirring between his legs. He swallows as he unravels his bowtie, heartbeat thrumming under his skin. He lays the article of clothing at the foot of the bed before he sets to undo his waistcoat, and his undershirt, shrugging off his jacket in the process. He opts to leave the undershirt on because he’s going to make this quick and it’s one less thing he must put back on.

He slides off his brogues before climbing onto the bed and shimmies out of his trousers, fully erect and already leaking, and he sighs as he lays back against the pillows. He wriggles a bit, letting himself get comfortable, and allows himself to indulge in his imagination.

It’s shameful, the angel knows, thinking about one’s best friend in a sexual context, but it’s not as if Crowley will ever find out. It will just be something Aziraphale keeps to himself.

The angel sighs again, allowing his hands to roam his body, although it’s not necessary considering he’s already aroused. He just allows himself to fantasize.

_Crowley’s spindly fingers dance along Aziraphale’s skin, mapping out the expanse of his collarbones and chest, skittering down his flanks, making him wriggle. The demon chuckles in amusement at the squirming angel beneath him, and leans down to press kisses to Aziraphale’s pale throat, worrying bruises into the flesh with teeth_ —

Aziraphale lets out a shaky breath, one hand straying down from his chest to take his throbbing cock in hand, eager to get on with the proceedings. His other hand stays on his chest, fingers tracing circles around one of his nipples, and his hips jerk up involuntarily.

_“So sensitive already?” Crowley hums teasingly. “You want this so badly, don’t you?” He leans down to latch his mouth onto one of the angel’s nipples, whirling his tongue around the sensitive bud and taking it between his teeth._

“Yes,” Aziraphale gasps, feeling his whole body heat up at the slew of thoughts his mind is offering up. Precum is pearling at the tip of his cock and he brushes his thumb over the slit, gathering the fluid to ease his ministrations.

His mind falls to Crowley’s hands—those beautiful hands, pianist fingers and all—would they be rough on his skin, gripping his hips tightly, or are they soft? Would they be gentle, caressing the angel with love and reverence Aziraphale would reserve for a very valuable first edition? Aziraphale’s mind is swimming with the possibilities.

He lets out a shuddery sigh, the breath in a semblance of Crowley’s name.

_“Yes, my angel?” Crowley says, hovering over Aziraphale and gazing at him lovingly, and oh, how Aziraphale loves those eyes, the molten gold of them, and he wants to live in them, drown in them, drink them up like a freshly brewed cup of tea. “What do you need? I’ll give you anything you need.”_

“Please, _fuck me_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale moans, fucking up into his fist. He briefly wonders how scandalized Crowley would be if he heard the angel curse. A laugh bubbles in his throat, but if swiftly turns into a whine as he starts to move faster, urgently. “ _Crowley_ , yes, please—”

Aziraphale is not that good concerning technology, especially when it comes to cellphones. He much prefers his old rotary phone to keep in contact with people. It’s simple, it’s easy. No glass screen in danger of breaking if someone looks at it the wrong way, no expensive add-ons every year—just simple and right to the point.

However, Aziraphale is aware that today’s latest cellphones have a voice recognition feature, where if you say a certain phrase or command, the phone will pick up on your voice and act accordingly.

Aziraphale’s mobile, so lovingly gifted to him by a certain demon, is resting beside him on the bed. The screen lights up, _“Calling Crowley…”_ scrolling across the display. However, Aziraphale is too preoccupied at the moment to notice, one hand moving with fervor over his cock while the other maps out the expanse of his chest, wishing it was the hands of said demon that just so happens to pick up.

No one really called Crowley, especially when he was driving. This hadn’t stopped Aziraphale from nagging him to install a hands-free device in the Bentley just in case, something about how being on the phone while driving is dangerous, and then a usual jab at Crowley’s driving speeds. He rolls his eyes.

It’s night and he’s driving down a twisted road, void of any motorists except for a few strays passing by him in the night. He’s almost home, eager to be back in London to place his new plants in his sunroom. They’re resting in the backseat of the Bentley, leaves trembling as they’ve already been instilled with the fear of Crowley. He smirks.

He’s also excited to get home so he can see Aziraphale.

At the thought of the angel, Crowley’s lips curl into a small smile. Of course, he wouldn’t admit to anyone else that a few days without Aziraphale made him ache with the urge to seek the angel out, but he had a realization that he needed to extract himself from Aziraphale’s hip for a few days lest he merged himself with the angel completely.

Crowley is jolted out of his reverie at the shrill voice of the hands-free device announcing a call from Aziraphale himself. With a delighted hum, Crowley reaches over to press the button to answer.

“Hey, angel, I’m almost h—” He is cut off, however, with quick-paced, ragged breaths, and a broken whimper of Crowley’s name.

Crowley immediately slams on the brakes, unable to hear the screeching of the tires on asphalt over the sound of the blood rushing through his ears. Swerving to the side of the road in a sheer panic, he makes a fruitless attempt to collect himself before speaking.

“Aziraphale, are you okay? What’s wrong?” Christ, he _knew_ he shouldn’t have left London for the weekend. There was still always a chance of Above and Below keeping a watchful eye on them, looking for the opportunity to strike, and it sounds like they took it as soon as it was available. He has his fingers poised to snap, calling up a major miracle to send him to Soho, to the bookshop, to come to Aziraphale’s aid. He takes in a quivering breath, listening intensely.

“Angel, can you hear me? Are you alone?” His curses how his voice cracks.

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale whines. “ _Please—please, you feel so good—_ ”

The hand about to snap immediately flies to the demon’s mouth to smother the embarrassed squeak threatening to leave the confines of his throat. He feels his face heat up at exponential speeds, and the tightness in his gut loosens into the very, very familiar feeling of arousal. He squeezes his thighs together on instinct.

_I’m going to die. I’m going to discorporate in this car on the side of the road_ , is the only thing Crowley’s brain can conjure up at the moment, struck speechless at the sound of an angel crying out in pleasure over the Bentley’s sound system, over _him_ , no less. Angels were supposed to be sexless, if he’s not mistaken, so Aziraphale should be no different, right? _Right?_

And yet, angels have no need for food, or to collect a variety of ancient books in a nest of a bookshop, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Aziraphale would make an Effort, too. It doesn’t make Crowley any less shell-shocked, though, and he must stifle a groan hearing the angel’s voice—usually so prim and proper and stuffy—ragged and moaning in ecstasy.

It doesn’t help that he’s crying out Crowley’s name.

By the sounds Aziraphale is making, it’s apparent like he’s nearing climax. His moans have reached a pitch Crowley didn’t know Aziraphale could muster, and they’re more desperate and breathier, and the demon can hear skin on skin—his hand moving rapidly on his cock. Crowley’s listening, rapt and attentive, and he hates how eager he feels to hear Aziraphale chase release.

“ _Crowley, darling, yes, yes, yes, f_ -fuck—” His pleas morph into a drawn-out, wanton moan of the demon’s name, and Crowley must sink his teeth into the meat of his palm lest he make a strangled sound.

The angel comes down, gasping breaths evening out, making a pleased little hum. Crowley allows himself to fantasize witnessing Aziraphale in the afterglow, cheeks flushed, skin dewy, wild curls even more mussed than they already are. He imagines love bites covering Aziraphale’s throat and collarbones, purpling fingerprint-shaped bruises dotting his hips from Crowley gripping him and yanking him down onto his—

He is ripped out of his reverie at the sound of a bed creaking (since when does Aziraphale have a bed?) and the tinny sound of Aziraphale picking up his mobile. There is a scandalized gasp as the angel realizes what just transgressed.

“ _Oh, dear_.”

The afterglow immediately drains from Aziraphale’s body along with the color from his face. Surely he couldn’t have been _this_ terrible with mobile phones to have called up the demon during a wank wherein he was fantasizing about said demon himself. The angel wracks his brain for any possible answers, but it doesn’t matter because he needs to come up with an explanation, and he needs it _now._

With a trembling hand, he puts the phone up to his ear. Through the white noise he can hear Crowley’s shallow breathing. Swallowing, he sets off.

“Crowley, I’m so terribly _embarrassed_ , I didn’t mean to call you, I swear—”

“ _Azssssiraphale_.”

At the sibilant hiss, the angel clams up. “Y-Yes, dear boy?”

“ _It’s…it’s fine. I didn’t think I had voice commands set up on it, but I guess I did. Erm._ ” Crowley pauses.

“I’m _mortified_ , though, this was dreadfully untoward of me! I can hang up if you want, Lord knows you probably never want to talk to me again—”

“No.” Crowley’s voice is firm, and Aziraphale swallows. His stupid human heart is fluttering in his chest at the sudden shift of the demon’s tone. “ _If it bothered me…if it bothered me, I would have hung up immediately. But I didn’t. So_.”

“Ah. I see.” Aziraphale worries his bottom lip with his teeth. “Er…were you on your way home, then?”

“ _Yeah. ‘M in the Bentley, actually_.”

“Oh, dear, are you _driving?_ ” Aziraphale asks, incredulously.

“ _Well, I_ was,” Crowley says, sniffing. “ _But I had to pull over when I answered because, well, I thought you were in pain._ ” The demon takes in a shuddering breath. “ _I thought they had come for you_.”

At this, Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “Oh, Crowley. I don’t think they’ll be bothering us anytime soon. You needn’t worry.”

“ _But I still do, though_ ,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale hears him shifting in the driver’s seat. The demon lets out a hiss.

“Is something the matter?”

Crowley stammers, making a choked off noise. “ _I—er, well, I mean—not really. I just_.”

“Crowley, you know you can tell me anything,” Aziraphale says, tone soft.

“ _I—_ ” He hears the demon swallow. “ _Not gonna lie when I say you sounded really,_ really _good, angel_.”

Oh.

_Oh_.

“O-Oh,” is all Aziraphale can say, voice cracking.

“ _Hope that’s not too forward of me to say_ ,” Crowley murmurs.

“N-No. Of course not. Not after I…you know.”

A silence falls between them, and Aziraphale wonders if Crowley can hear his heart pumping frantically in his chest. Crowley’s still breathing over the line, and the angel clings to the sound as an anchor.

“ _Angel, can I confess something?”_ the demon asks, and Aziraphale jolts suddenly.

“Of course, dear boy. Confess away.”

Crowley gulps, evidently mustering up the gusto to say what he needed to say. Aziraphale can hear him fidgeting, a nervous habit the demon’s picked up over the years. He can’t help but smile fondly.

“ _I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about this before_ ,” Crowley whispers. “ _And I’d be lying if I said I’m not hard enough to cut glass right now. Jesus, Aziraphale, you sounded…you sounded better than anything my stupid brain could conjure up._ ”

Aziraphale finds that his spent cock is giving a variety of interesting twitches, arousal stirring in his abdomen as his face flushes carnation pink. “Oh, darling, do you—do you really mean that?”

“ _I do, angel. I do_.” He hears the demon draw in a deep breath. “ _I don’t think I’m gonna be able to hold out until I get back to Soho_.”

Aziraphale swallows. The hand holding the phone to his ear is trembling, and he’s growing harder by the second at Crowley’s plight, so he decidedly throws caution to the wind and takes the next step.

“I could help you, if you’d like. Until you can come home.”

Home being the bookshop, the angel means, but also in the sense of himself. That’s what he wants to be to Crowley—someone comfortable enough that he can call home.

Crowley’s voice shakes. “ _Are you—are you sure, Aziraphale? I don’t want to make you do something you’re uncomfortable with._ ”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Not to be too inappropriate, but I quite literally had a _wank_ fantasizing about you, so no, I wouldn’t be uncomfortable at all in the slightest.”

Crowley can’t stifle his guffaw at this. “ _Yeah, I thought so.”_ His laughter dies down, tone shifting to something more serious. “ _Can I make a request, though_?”

“Anything for you, darling.”

“ _I want to hear you come again_. Please.”

Aziraphale takes in a shuddering breath, arousal a knot in his belly and his cock standing at full attention, precum already beading at the tip. He digs his fingernails into his thighs and fumbles with his mobile until he can put it on speaker. When he accomplishes this task, he sets the phone next to him and wriggles on the mattress, eager to get comfortable.

“Yes. Yeah,” the angel rasps, a bit far gone to keep his proper façade. He reaches down to take his cock in his hand, giving it a firm tug. His eyes flutter shut and he sighs, slightly sensitive from his previous orgasm.

“ _That’s it. Just like that, angel_ ,” Crowley coos, and Aziraphale hears the sound of fabric shifting and skin-to-skin contact; the image of the demon’s hand on his prick floods his mind and Aziraphale shivers. “ _Tell me what you thought about_.”

“I…” Aziraphale flushes with embarrassment. “Y-Your hands, dear.”

“ _Oh? And what about them?_ ” the demon prompts.

“I suppose—I suppose one could say I have, ah, a _thing_ for them. They’re slender yet strong, and capable, and I found myself thinking of them on me, touching me and—and _grabbing_.”

Crowley chuckles. “ _Oh, Aziraphale, I’d love to touch you with them. I want to make you feel good with them. And yes_ ”—his voice drops to a sultry hiss—“ _I want to grab you all over with them_.”

Aziraphale moans, tugging on his cock insistently, coating it with a thin layer of precum as lube. “Wh-Where do you want to touch me?”

“ _Oh,_ everywhere, _angel. You have no idea._ _I’d start with that pretty face of yours. I’ve always wanted to hold it in my hands—and I’d kiss you. Someone, Aziraphale, I want to kiss you so hard you’ll forget your name.”_

Aziraphale brings trembling fingers to his mouth to brush over his lips. “Oh, dearheart, I want to kiss you too. Can we? When you come home?”

_“Of course, dove. The minute I walk through the door of the shop I’m gonna snog the living daylights out of you.”_

Aziraphale feels woozy at the new pet name. He’s never heard that one before and it does funny things to his stomach. “I’ll be waiting with bated breath, Crowley.”

The demon chortles. “ _I should hope so. Then I’ll finally be able to touch you like I’ve wanted to all these years. And_ grab.”

Aziraphale whimpers, imagining Crowley’s dexterous hands mapping out his body. “What do you want to grab?”

“ _Oh, angel, I could wax poetic about every part of your body I want to touch for eons, but to get to the point, I’m_ aching _to dig my fingers into your hips and thighs. I want to grip them hard enough to leave bruises and I wanna sink my teeth into those luscious thighs of yours before I take your cock into my mouth.”_

The angel whines, hips jerking up involuntarily, squeezing around the base of his cock to make sure this doesn’t end prematurely. His thighs are shaking and he digs his nails to his flesh, imagining it’s Crowley’s hands, Crowley’s fingers, sharp nails dragging welts across his skin.

“More, tell me more,” Aziraphale begs, breathless.

“ _I’d let you fuck my throat, Aziraphale. I wanna feel your cock in my mouth and I wanna feel you come down my throat. I bet you taste heavenly, angel_.” Crowley’s voice drops to a purr. “ _We all know I could make do with a little heavenly essence in me_.”

They both laugh at that, but Crowley’s giggles bleed into moans, and Aziraphale can hear the demon touching himself, the sound of skin against skin, and it’s picking up with each passing minute. The fact Crowley is getting off _because_ of Aziraphale sends a thrill down the angel’s spine.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, winded. “I want—I want you to fuck me.”

The demon groans. “ _Yeah? I wanna fuck you too, angel. You have no idea what you do to me_.”

“Tell me. _Please_.”

“ _Get you nice and open with my fingers first_ ,” Crowley rasps, voice tight, like he’s trying for any semblance of control he can muster to not use a major miracle to teleport himself on top of Aziraphale this instant. “ _Bet you’ll be so nice and tight around me, dove. Maybe I’ll make you come around my fingers before you come around my cock_.”

Aziraphale gasps and his cock twitches, another dribble of precum budding from the tip. He circles the head with his thumb, catching the pearlescent liquid on his skin. He calls up a miracle with his free hand, slicking two of his fingers before reaching down to circle his hole before sinking into himself, and he lets out a shaky whine.

“ _Tell me what you’re doing, Aziraphale_ ,” Crowley pleads. “ _Someone, I wish I could see you_.”

“I’m—I’m fucking myself on my fingers,” Aziraphale pants, and he’s picking up the pace, eager to chase his release. “Thinking it’s you, Lord, I wish it was _you_ —”

“ _’M close, angel_ ,” Crowley says, “ _and I’ll be right on my way as soon as we’re finished, I promise you_.”

“You’ll drive safely, won’t you?”

“ _I’ll try my best. No promises, though. I have half the mind to miracle you here and have you in the back of the Bentley_.”

And for some reason unbeknownst to him—probably the thought that Crowley would sully his precious vehicle over Aziraphale—sends the angel over the edge, and he climaxes with a high-pitched cry, clenching around his fingers and painting his fist and belly with his seed. When he comes down, it’s with a broken whimper of Crowley’s name, and he hears the demon almost growl.

“ _Fuck, Aziraphale, I’m—_ ah,” and Aziraphale shivers when he hears Crowley come with a moan, and he’s so eager to see the scene in person.

They both sit in a comfortable silence, winding down from their collective highs, and Aziraphale miracles away his mess with a downward flick of his wrist. He lays back on the bed, completely spent, and manages to wriggle under the covers. He picks up the phone and takes it off speaker, putting it back to his ear.

“Hello, darling,” the angel says with a smile.

“ _Whoo-ee._ ” Crowley sounds worn-out, but satisfied, and Aziraphale can hear his grin. “ _That was…wow_.”

“I agree,” Aziraphale hums. “Did you enjoy it?”

“ _Oh, angel, do you even have to ask?_ ” Crowley says, and Aziraphale can hear him zipping up his jeans. “ _I don’t even think I can drive_.”

“And leave me in this bed, all alone?” Aziraphale says coyly, fluttering his lashes as if Crowley could see them.

“ _Yeah, okay, I’ll be there in a second_ ,” Crowley mutters. He hears the engine of the Bentley roar to life, and the angel smirks, like a cat who got the cream. “ _Stay right where you are_.”

“Wouldn’t dream of moving, darling. Let yourself in when you get here and make sure to lock the door behind you. I’ll be upstairs waiting.” Aziraphale pauses for a moment, humming in contemplation. “And, Crowley?”

“ _Yeah, angel?_ ”

Aziraphale smiles. “I love you, dear.”

Crowley makes a strangled noise, clearly flustered, and the angel snickers mirthfully. “ _I—yeah—ngk—I love you too. I really do_.”

“I’m very glad, dearheart. See you soon?”

“I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

**Author's Note:**

> i have so many plots for fics like im going crazy...gomens howl's moving castle au...gomens buzzfeed unsolved au....im rabid
> 
> [follow me on tumblr xo](https://chadaziraphale.tumblr.com/)


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